Quiet The Mind
by LaSuen
Summary: Sherlock's mind is a storm... and John Watson is his secret comfort place. [One-shot. PWP. Sherlock/John]


**Title** : Quiet The Mind

 **Author** : SerenityS

 **Translator** : lasuen

 **Beta** : halloa_what_is_this

 **Tags** : PWP, established relationship, one-shot

 **Pairing** : Sherlock/John

 **Disclaimer** : We do not own anything.

 **T/N** : Heartfelt thanks to SerenityS who is the author of this story and to my beta halloa_what_is_this. As usual, reviews are adored.

Also, illustrations made by MARiKa can be accessed via the following link: / 25. media .tumblr b7bf209fc9ac6108e40bf5eb96250402/ tumblr_mtybp052781qa2nyzo1_1280. jpg (remove the gaps).

* * *

 **Quiet The Mind**

"Not bad, that one," John says.

Beside him in the cab, Sherlock utters an indistinct sound that could only mean he has seen better.

"I'm considering calling it _The Clapton Benefactor_ ," John continues.

Sherlock huffs.

"Think of a better one, you prat."

On Christmas Eve, six people received anonymous parcels containing various body parts. Police didn't want the press to make a fuss about it during the height of celebrations, so Lestrade phoned Sherlock hoping the consulting detective would help him work it out faster. The investigation was successful and went relatively smoothly, except for one thing. Sherlock, as was usually the case, acted entirely independent of everyone else, which resulted in a severe blow on his back with a spanner.

"You should've been more cautious, Sherlock."

Sherlock heaves out a resigned sigh. _Here we go again._

"You could've waited for me or Lestrade."

"And let him get away."

"He could've maimed you. Or hit you on the head. Bear that in mind next time around."

"Of course," Sherlock agrees with suspicious ease.

"Oh yeah?" John scoffs looking at him doubtfully.

For the rest of their way home, John remains silent and Sherlock hopes that he has already wiped their exchange off his mind.

Yet, as Sherlock reaches the bathroom to rinse his face, John sneaks in right after him and traps the detective securely inside.

"He got you good," John says.

"It's nothing."

"Right. Can I be the judge of that?"

"John."

"Take off your shirt," John urges, in a voice that leaves no room for argument.

With a heavy sigh Sherlock turns his back to John while undoing the buttons of his shirt. As he pulls it off gingerly, baring his shoulders, the movement causes him all too obvious discomfort.

John's fingers brush over Sherlock's shoulder, thoroughly inspecting a small, elongated bruise on the right side.

"This may hurt a bit," John warns before starting to palpate his shoulder-blade.

A barely perceptible shudder runs through Sherlock, yet no sound escapes him despite the evident pain.

"Raise your arm."

Sherlock follows the instruction.

"Doesn't look so bad. You'd have to apply some ointment, though, after you take a shower." As if in conclusion, John's palm runs along Sherlock's back.

And it doesn't go unnoticed when Sherlock arches slightly into John's touch. Sherlock hesitates —his breathing seems to have sped up just the tiniest bit —and doesn't hurry to put his clothes back on or to step into the shower, so John's open palm returns to rest flat against his spine. The skin is soft and pleasant, and now probably salty, too. John draws Sherlock closer, embracing him with one hand.

Sherlock doesn't like losing his self-control, and this only makes it all the more exciting for John to find his weak spots. One of those he has already figured out. Unwilling to waste any more time, John brushes his lips against Sherlock's neck, just under the curls, the tip of his tongue tasting his skin.

Sherlock exhales loudly, his torso tensing under John's hand. John glides his lips downward, kissing the barely protruding vertebrae while his fingers deal promptly with the button on Sherlock's trousers.

"Not now, John," the detective speaks up in protest, but his voice has a telltale edge to it when he utters John's name.

"No time like now," John whispers without breaking away.

He doesn't have to look to know when Sherlock is turned on —not that the fabric of his tight-fitting trousers is doing Sherlock any good either—and John is well aware that he could make Sherlock come without even undressing him. That is, if he wanted. John moves his hand against the bulge in his trousers and discovers that Sherlock is already aroused.

"Care to say something?" John asks in a somewhat insinuating tone while tenderly nipping at his earlobe.

"Nothing you wouldn't already know."

"So, it's not because of the pain?"

"Of course not, you idiot," Sherlock huffs out.

"Careful," John tangibly bites into his shoulder, his hips pressing against Sherlock as John barely stifles a groan.

John rubs his cock lightly through the thin fabric while Sherlock relaxes into the caress, his head tilted back in a way that exposes his all too tempting throat. From where John stands he, of course, cannot see it in all its perfection, and although in his imagination he vividly fills in the gaps, right now it is far from enough.

"Turn around," John commands while steering both of them toward the mirror.

Lost to the world, Sherlock doesn't immediately understand what John wants of him but simply obeys, enticed by his calm, yet insistent voice.

As his eyes blink open, he freezes at the sight of their reflection in the mirror. He watches John's fingertips trail along his throat, halt at the small pit between his clavicles, tease his nipples, and then leisurely follow their path further down until John's wrist is hidden out of sight.

Sherlock captures John's hand with his own, squeezing it hard.

"Better now?" John's lips curve in a smile as he locks his eyes with Sherlock.

"Shut up," Sherlock laughs, averting his gaze from the mirror.

He is not quite used to seeing himself like this, gasping for air, with a faint blush on his cheeks, eyes half-closed with pleasure. He is embarrassed by the way his body reacts to John, at times taken aback and so inopportune, even in response to some commonplace actions, not necessarily directed at Sherlock to begin with. About some of those instances John doesn't have the foggiest idea. Surely, he would've noticed, had he known when to pay attention.

God, sometimes John would just look at him, like right now, and it would drive Sherlock mad. As though John was a telepath who exchanged not thoughts, but rather sensations, a whole gamut of feelings and emotions like that of electromagnetic waves. A heartbeat, and Sherlock would strip his mind of all common sense, unable to put up any struggle. Sometimes it was so deliciously tempting to switch off all his reason and dissolve into someone else. In particular, if that someone was John, _his_ John.

Sherlock closes his eyes and tilts his head for John to lightly nibble at his lips, luring the detective into a kiss that felt more like a game. Light movements of his lips are feather-like as they tease and make Sherlock beg for more, and so he cards his fingers through John's hair while capturing his mouth.

Hugging him with both arms, John tightens his hold and feels on his lips as Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. John's palms move along his chest and abdomen, his nose nuzzling against Sherlock's neck as he breathes in the intoxicating scent of his lover. Impatient, Sherlock withdraws his hips, and John pulls away just enough to undo his belt.

"Should we do it here or take it to the bedroom?" John's whisper is hot against Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock swallows, thinking it over for a moment or two. It goes without saying that the thought of doing it in front of the mirror tickles his imagination, but he would rather have John on top of him, covering him with his body like a warm quilt.

"Maybe next time."

He proceeds to the bedroom and John follows in his steps, removing his shirt and jeans. Sherlock perches on top of the bed, still in his half-undone trousers, and observes John. Sherlock likes being undressed, and John manages it at one go.

He pushes Sherlock onto his back and settles on top, devouring his lips with his own. John kisses him deeply and thoroughly, no more teasing and letting Sherlock take over once he is turned on enough. Feeling Sherlock's tongue against his own is so inebriating that John can barely support his own weight with his arms. He arches in response to Sherlock's hands as they slide along John's back, sending a sweet shiver throughout him. When John thrusts against his groin, Sherlock emits a brief moan, tilting his head back, and so John covers his throat with kisses, without taking a pause to catch his breath. John can never have enough of him. After all, they don't make love too often.

At last, feeling somewhat satiated for the time being, John pulls away and glances at Sherlock. In the dim evening light his features are faintly discernible, but John can very well make out all the warmth and desire that Sherlock regards him with. Sherlocks miles and dives a hand in between their bodies. John's eyes close and his breathing hitches as Sherlock moves his palm along John's cock. This reminds him of Sherlock touching him for the first time, careful if not timid. And it made him tremble back then, just as it does now.

John rolls them over to the other side of the bed, so now Sherlock lies on top of him and his lips travel all across John's body. John relaxes into it, letting himself melt into the feeling and think about nothing else. Sherlock's touches are loving and filled to the brim with tenderness, and at times ticklish when dark curls brush against his skin. John wouldn't mind it continuing like this for as long as humanly possible. His hands stroke Sherlock's back and hips, and his palms squeeze Sherlock's round buttocks, urging him to rub against his body. John gasps when their cocks meet.

John wets his fingers with saliva and trails them between Sherlock's buttocks.

Sherlock stops, holding his breath, and feels John stretch him carefully. With his other hand, John strokes his cock until Sherlock starts moving down on his fingers while at the same time thrusting into John's fist. The shudder that runs through Sherlock's body tells John that he won't last for long, and John is not that far behind either. Without further ado, John picks Sherlock up and lays him on his back, comfortably settling himself between his legs.

At the very last moment, John remembers about the lubricant and looks around in search of it.

"Shit," he curses, his hand fumbling about in the folds of the blanket. "Do you—"

Sherlock raises his leg, fishes out the tube and holds it out to John.

"Oh, do take your time," he tries to sound sarcastic, yet his voice doesn't quite reach that point.

"Really?"

John pulls Sherlock towards himself so that Sherlock's thighs are in his lap, raised just enough for John to direct his cock into his lover. John likes this position, for it allows the softest and smoothest penetration, and there's an opportunity to caress Sherlock, feeling his slim and strong body under his palms.

A low moan escapes Sherlock as John pushes into him at almost full length. He lingers for a moment, giving Sherlock time to get used to it. Sherlock's eyes are closed, and John wants to shut out the outer world as well, but he cannot tear his gaze away from Sherlock. John likes to watch the expressions of his face change and his breathing pick up its pace when they become one.

"John—"

Uttered so breathlessly, his name on Sherlock's lips sounds like a plea, and John cannot resist the entreaty.

He leans down to kiss Sherlock, catching light moans from his lips without stopping his thrusts. Sherlock's hands stop rumpling the sheets as he finds a better use for them while John embraces him with all his body, nuzzling his face in the curve of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock feels him everywhere: on his lips, under his fingertips, inside of him. He inhales John's scent and listens to his breathing. His entire mind overflowing with John, and it is fascinating, and startling, and transcends all logic.

John's back is arched with pleasure, and he grips Sherlock's thighs, quickening his pace.

"I want to lick you clean when you come."

Frankly speaking, there weren't that many things which could have undone Sherlock more than that.

John takes heed of his reaction and lowers his lips to Sherlock's ear to whisper what else he would like to do with him.

A moan rips from Sherlock's chest as he, eyes squeezed shut, throws back his head and ejaculates onto his stomach. John follows him almost at once, catching up with Sherlock's subsiding moans and shuddering in a delightful orgasm.

As the tension drains from his body, John presses his sweaty forehead against Sherlock's, simply breathing in the same air as they both gather their breaths.

When he straightens up, Sherlock looks at him with a question in his eyes.

"See, I didn't make any promises," John responds, a little late on the uptake.

 _Maybe some other time._

He gets up and heads for the wardrobe.

"You going to sleep, or would you like to join me?" John asks, rummaging around in search of clean towels.

Sherlock's lips widen into a smile. He stretches out his limbs with languid sloth.

"God, you need to eat more," John comments while watching Sherlock out the corner of his eye.

"And you less."

"Shut up, you like it."

"So do you."

John hurls a towel in Sherlock's general direction before disappearing behind the bathroom door.

Sherlock stays in the bed for a moment, idling away the time. He shuts his eyes as he listens closely and tries to guess what John is doing judging by the sounds he produces.

A moment before the water starts, John begins to hum in a low voice, but the words are muffled by the shower and all that Sherlock can make out is the tune delivered in John's soft baritone.

And, as always, Sherlock follows his voice.


End file.
